Procula wanted to make the trip also, but Pilate refused to consider it. “Too risky,” he warned. “The city is seething with unrest.”
It took her several days of indirect persuasion, gentle coaxing, and even a tear or two to achieve what most wives accomplish in a far shorter time, changing a husband’s “unalterable decision.” But she dared not disclose her real motive in wishing to go along, for that would have ended the matter: Cornelius had told her that Jesus might attend the Passover in Jerusalem. The various reports about the Galilean prophet had at first only tickled her curiosity, but now she was intrigued by what the extraordinary man said and did. She had even thought of asking her husband for permission to go and hear the prophet, but his veto would have been so certain that she had not bothered. Yet her native religiosity kept feeding a blazing interest in the Galilean. Even if he did not show up in Jerusalem—he was, after all, a hunted man—she might at least interview those who had seen him.
Their journey to Jerusalem lagged behind schedule, because the roads were choked with crowds on their annual pilgrimage to the Holy City. But traffic was lighter on Saturday, when no pious Jew would break the Sabbath by traveling more than a half mile, so Pilate’s entourage arrived almost as planned on the last Sunday in March.
Even now, as they approached the final rise of the northern road into Jerusalem, the highway was increasingly congested with pilgrims chanting psalms and singing the traditional Passover songs. Freight donkeys squealed, sacrificial sheep bleated an accompaniment of their own. Old people were being helped along by the young, children were getting lost, mothers were calling them, and men were swearing at recalcitrant burros or scampering to keep the sheep in line. A smell of dust and reeking animal dung hovered over the highway, broken only intermittently by gusts of wind from the west.
When they reached the summit of the last ridge and all Jerusalem lay before them, much of the caravan fell on its knees in tearful joy and prayer. Pilate and his retinue moved on through the worshipers toward the Water Gate. Great clusters of canvas suburbs ringed Jerusalem, a larger tent city than Pilate had seen at previous Passovers. Since the Jewish capital could not hope to house the hordes of pilgrims arriving for the festival, such hillside shelter was a necessity. Before the week was over, Jerusalem’s population would temporarily increase by 250,000.
“A regular religious army,” Pilate commented. “Imagine what would happen if each of them were armed. We wouldn’t stand a chance.” He had a magistrate’s wariness of crowds, and certainly the experience to rue them.
Suddenly Procula tugged at his arm. “Look to the east, up the slopes of the Mount of Olives there…”
Pilate squinted. Parallel bands of wriggling green were hovering over the heads of an enormous, oblong throng of people, split in two by a roadway. The crowd seemed to be waving branches of some kind, perhaps palm fronds. A tumultuous roar, muffled by the distance, welled up as a small knot of people came down the roadway.
“I can’t make it out, Procula,” he said. “Now if this were Greece, that would be a demonstration in honor of a returning Olympic victor. We’ll find out when we get to Jerusalem; they seem to be heading toward the city.”
It was not until evening that Pilate received a full briefing on the palm-waving phenomenon from the tribune at the Antonia. But the explanation hardly satisfied him, since it was so full of contradictions. Yes, the demonstration was in honor of a man, the prophet Jesus, who had evidently come out of hiding. Yes, the event might have serious political overtones. Many Jews thought their Messiah would be declared as king on that very Mount of Olives. The crowds had also shouted praises to “the son of David,” a loaded name if Jesus should claim to be heir of King David in a restored Judean monarchy. Even the waving of palm branches could be symbolic, for the palm was the national emblem of Palestine. These were Jewish flags…And of the extra quarter million people jamming Jerusalem, how many were members of the Zealot party from Galilee?
Yet others told him that Jesus was a nonpolitical person, the commandant continued, and that he was misunderstood by the swarms of pilgrims. Still others insisted that the people knew this and were only cheering on their favorite prophet. His vehicle was not a golden chariot but a jogging ass, certainly a poor prop for any kingmakers. And when he reached Jerusalem, Jesus made no incendiary speeches to the masses or flaunted pretensions of any kind. He simply walked over to the temple, enjoyed the view across the Kidron Valley, and then returned with his disciples to Bethany, for it was getting on toward suppertime.
Pilate was baffled by the significance of it all. The episode was either harmless or it was meaningful in the extreme. But the fate of the puzzling prophet would clearly depend on what he did or did not do from now on in the face of such enthusiastic support. If Jesus veered into politics, Rome would intrude, much as Pilate hated the thought of getting involved.
But then it occurred to him that even if the prophet remained strictly within a religious sphere, he would still be in trouble with Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin, who had posted the notices for his arrest throughout Judea. In that case, why hadn’t the Jewish temple guard seized him during his afternoon visit to the temple?
In the Herodian palace that night, Pilate retired more bewildered than ever. But Procula barely concealed her satisfaction that Jesus had come to Jerusalem after all. At last she might have the chance to hear him, perhaps even meet him. Would he accept an invitation to have dinner with them in the Herodian palace? she wondered. After all, Roman governors were always giving dinners for famous people in their provinces. Maybe she could see with her own eyes whether or not he actually performed wonders. At least she could try to learn something about the secret power he had over people, whether it was in his personality or in his message. But the bubble of her idea burst on the thought that her husband was not about to entertain Messiahs of any kind.
On Monday, while reviewing the Jerusalem cohort at the Tower Antonia, Pilate warned his auxiliaries to be on especially good behavior during the coming week. He then went to the south wall of the city to inspect his beloved aqueduct. Due to heavy rainfall that spring, the water was gushing along better than ever.
Later in the day, he presided over a meeting of the chief regional tax collectors for Judea. He was in the process of assigning toparchial quotas for the annual tribute when little Zacchaeus, the diminutive superintendent of taxes for Jericho, announced, “Noble Prefect, in going over my accounts, I find that I made an error of 50,000 sesterces in last year’s tribute.”
“Zacchaeus,” Pilate sniffed, “securing a tax rebate from the imperial treasury is impossible.”
“No, no, Excellency. I owe the treasury 50,000 sesterces. And here they are.” Zacchaeus’s eyes were blazing happily.
Pilate’s jaw sagged. “What’s come over you, Zacchaeus? You usually battle me down to the last quadrans.”
“Last Thursday, while I was up a tree in Jericho, the prophet—” He stopped abruptly, then laughed. “Oh…nothing, gentlemen. Now, Excellency, how much did you say poor Jericho will have to ‘contribute’ this year?”
That drew a general chuckle, since Jerichoans had the highest per-capita income of any purely Jewish city in Palestine.
When the fiscal conference adjourned, the tribune of Jerusalem arrived to report something he felt would be of interest to Pilate. “Just an hour ago it happened, Prefect. At the Antonia we heard a commotion in the temple area. I took a squad of men up to the outer courts, but by then it was too late.”